


And Scarlet

by RhineGold



Series: Consanguinity [3]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Child Abuse, Father/Son Incest, M/M, Threesome - M/M/M, Timey-Wimey, with ages and appearances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 07:44:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2016717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhineGold/pseuds/RhineGold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Within Pandora's Box, Rumpelstiltskin finds himself entranced by all the things he's ever dared to dream of, only those dreams have all been shattered, splintered into dark and twisted versions that enslave rather than enchant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Scarlet

**Author's Note:**

> I was so very apprehensive about putting this up here, and I still am. Please don’t judge me too harshly - I am not even going to lie, I was stoned on pain meds when I wrote this oops. 
> 
> Trigger warnings that I cannot stress enough for incest, characters shifting or appearing to shift between adults and children while engaged in sexual situations, and an overwhelming amount of cruelty and abusive treatment.

It seems so simple in this hazy, liquid state. There are hands round his waist, stroking in his hair, and it feels gentle, feels tender, feels nice.

He leans backwards, pressing himself against the man holding him, and for a moment, it feels just like it used to - warm and comforting and strong. The hands running through his hair are a new twist, but it feels soothing all the same. He sinks further into the crook of the arm supporting him, curling until he can lay his head against the man’s breastbone, nestling where he can listen to his heart beat.

The man in front of him is lowering himself until he is kneeling beside them, and he places his head gently onto Rumpelstiltskin’s lap, looking up at them both with wide and wet eyes. “You know,” He murmurs softly, the vibration climbing through his skin gently, “this is what I always dreamed of. Being a family. A real family.”

"Family…?" Rumpelstiltskin echoes, sitting up against the arms holding him at that. Something is wriggling and squirming in the back of his mind, but he can’t quite put his finger on it.

Instead, his father puts a finger, to his lips, shushing him. “Yes, indeed, laddie,” His voice is the light, gentle patter he knew as a boy, not the sleek, cultured tones that sound so alien and wrong from terribly familiar lips. “This is what we’ve been meant to have.”

It’s so reasonable, here, in this red and sleepy haze, and he curls back down against his father’s chest as Baelfire curls around his legs like a protective beast nuzzling its master. It’s safe here, in this small, tight bundle of lost boys and leather, and he closes his eyes.

~*~

When he opens them again, they are no longer sitting, but lying down. The space is different, though he cannot identify just how (the red-hazed room shifts and changes - earlier, it had felt wide and empty, making him want to burrow closer to the others. Now, it feels close and confined and cozy, but a bit too snug and warm).

He feels different now, stripped of his crocodile skins and leathers, left only in his silken, patterned shirt, and he feels small and awkward and whole, as he had when he was a boy. Beside him, his father (wearing his newer face) is lying in a similar, curled position, combing his fingers leisurely through his hair. He glances over his shoulder to see Baelfire there - _his_ Baelfire, the boy he’d raised and lost, gazing over his shoulder in silent communication with the father who’d abandoned _him_.

They have been talking while he has been sleeping. He can see the mutual agreement, the understanding in their eyes. They have become a unit. A family? He wants, more than anything, to be allowed to join them; no matter what it takes.

They notice he is awake, and the boy-who-isn’t-his-father smiles. “Hello, there, laddie. Did you have a nice nap?”

He nods because he can’t remember it, so it mustn’t have been unpleasant. The hand pets across his hair, brushing down over his face in a fond gesture that matches his non-father’s expression.

"Such a sweet boy…" He murmurs, pushing himself a bit closer on the bed so that their legs are nearly touching. "…Come here, laddie." He pats his thigh invitingly, their old, familiar indication that he should join him in the bed for mutual warmth.

Rumpelstiltskin rolls into him, pushing his face into that smaller, thinner chest. It’s wrong in too many ways to name, but it is still so very _right_ and _familiar_. The proportions are wrong, because he is small like a boy again and they are, too, but the overall sensation of it, the rhythm and patter of the heart he hears, sounds so right.

Just as their legs finally entwine, Baelfire slips closer behind him, spooning his body around him and enveloping his small form with long arms and legs. It feels perfect to be caged between them like this - being held and encased and _loved_.

When his father lifts his chin, it feels right, doesn’t feel strange. The thumb petting across his lips is fine and smooth one second, calloused and blunt the next. He cannot decide which version of his father he sees - the mischievous island puck or the cheerful, charismatic charlatan in rumpled clothes.

Instead, he closes his eyes, seeing nothing, only feeling as a pair of lips, chapped and bitten, soft and pink, close over his.

~*~

The first time a hand strokes under his shirt, he jumps and yelps, breaking the latest of a series of deep, drowning kisses. Behind him, Baelfire has pressed even closer, hands petting across his stomach and lower, finding the hem of the garment and exploring further.

A second set of hands joins the first, petting gently over his thighs and up, up, over his flank and to his waist. He wriggles between them as those hands creep back down, mapping a path and shape around his body. A sharp gasp breaks free from low in his throat when fingers grip and squeeze at the small, soft globes of his ass, parting and separating, kneading and flexing.

Teeth, lips, and tongue begin working on his throat, making his breathy sounds give way to moans. The hands on his waist reach inward then, and his sounds bubble up into a shriek as the tip of one finger slides deliberately and painstakingly slowly into his entrance.

The arms encircling him from behind hold him gently, but firmly, and the legs over his press down, pinning his. He can hear their voices murmuring indistinct things from either side of him, a soothing ocean of sound, and he finds himself relaxing under its weight. The finger twists, pushing deeper, and it is dry and catching, but he does nothing but duck his head against his father’s chest, hiding between that steady heartbeat and his own hair.

As though sensing his discomfort, suddenly there is wetness, slickness, with the finger, and he moans at the coolness of the temperature. His father whispers assurances and works the finger around and deeper, the warmth and friction of his hand warming the wetness as it helps him open him further. Rumpelstiltskin whimpers as the hands on his hips lift him up, pushing him forward and separating his thighs. Baelfire drapes one of those thin legs over his own hip, and Peter is shifting his hand with it, twisting his fingers until there is another one pressing into the boy they both hold.

It feels hot in the space now, but his father’s lips sooth his fevered brow as he lifts his head. “What a good boy,” He is whispering, and the words make him preen with pleasure, even as his lower body protests the way it is being split and teased. “I always knew you’d be my best boy, so nice and sweet…”

Behind him, Baelfire’s breathing hitches at the words, and he feels a bolt of sorrow that he isn’t providing the same comfort for his own boy. Unable to speak, he can only press his body back towards him in what he hopes is a communication of affection. He swallows a gasp as this drives him harder onto the fingers within him, spreading himself wider, but Baelfire is clutching him round the waist again, tight and possessive, burrowing his face in his shoulder, and he thinks he has understood what he wanted to say.

Peter is speaking to Baelfire then, and he lifts his head fractionally to listen. The words slip through Rumpelstiltskin’s ears like water, and he focuses instead on the arms curled around him, so familiar and so alien in this context, and he nearly cries for the crystalline beauty of it - of being home and held at last.

They move him easily, the fingers slipping free of him with a finale, possessive petting, and he finds himself being pressed face down into Baelfire’s lap. He curls onto his side, resting his hair on the bare, hairless thigh, nuzzling against his hip the way Baelfire had done earlier to him. He realizes what their embraces has given rise to just as he feels the hands on his hip, and his mouth falls open easily when Baelfire’s fingers coax at the corners of his lips.

"Can you give me this, Papa?" He is asking, and it is the husky voice of the man in that moment, making him look up. The gentle-faced boy is gone again, replaced by the man he doesn’t really know, but he can see Baelfire’s warm eyes on that lined and weary face, and he nods emphatically, wanting more than anything to please. To make amends.

He isn’t even really sure what he’s agreeing to in that instant, but then his hair is being brushed back from his face, petted down behind his shoulders, and he sees the engorged flesh being presented to him without delay, and he realizes suddenly what is going on. Before he can think to protest (or decide if he even wants to), his chin is being lifted, his mouth set against the soft, warm head, and he opens his mouth without a second thought.

He’s done this before, in darker times and days he’d rather forget, but this feels new and strange and _right_ , unlike the other times before. The skin is velvety and warm, and the salty flavor and musk are honey to his tongue and oh-so-dreamy. The hands on his shoulders are strong and broad, and he enjoys the directions they give, letting him know just what to do to please.

Just as the penis slips deeper, pressing down through his gag reflex and further, the hands on his hips are raising and parting them once more. He can feel a second erection there, pressing large and blunt against his tender, barely stretched opening, and he wants to panic, wants to struggle, but there are hands on his shoulders and flesh in his mouth, and the overarching sense of pleasure and of rightness overwhelm and subdue him. The red light around them darkens, the smoky air becoming denser and pressing more closely, and his panic falls away, leaving only that pulsating, overwhelming desire to please.

He moans, high and sharp, around the flesh spearing deep into his throat as his father enters him from behind. The hands on his hips are those of a man as well, and he feels small and owned by these two, a child in the world of capable adults, overwhelmed and overtaken, but in a way that feels proper and perfect at last.

They fill him completely, owning him and opening him, and the hands move from his shoulders to his hair, stroking and petting, pulling and pressing, and he slides forward with their demands, spreading his knees as the base of his father’s penis meets his hips from behind. Their rhythm is slow, painfully so, powerful thrusts with no sense of urgency, and indeed, he loses all sense of time and spatial recognition, lost in the red, heavy haze of being possessed and cherished by the arms and appendages around and within him.

It feels like hours, years, days, before there is a swelling, a spurting, an increase of pressure that alleviates with a dull violence, leaving a sea of creamy, hot seed in his deepest places. The hands on him are heavier now, the grips near-bruising, but it only makes him feel hotter and higher, like he is being shaped in a fire into something far more beautiful, far more desirable.

He is drawn up to lay across the body in front of him, both of them falling until they are lying flat. The man behind him comes too, still spearing him open with his softening flesh, and it feels wet and warm and perfect. He curls sleepily between them, feeling heavy and weighed down by their weight and the heavy, red air embracing and curling around them.

His father whispers more words of praise for the both of them, and there are fingers petting across his stretched opening, prying and spreading, making him moan and buck his hips backwards. Beneath him, the other man moves, shifting his hips and lifting them, until his slips down to rest on his flat stomach. The next thing to enter him is not a finger, but something almost painfully soft and limp, being fed alongside the penis still fitted inside. He realizes belatedly that Baelfire is being coaxed up, that his flesh is being fed into him, joining that of his father’s. Both are still soft, but the reprieve is short-lived, as each of them begins to harden, slowly, but surely.

The sensation of two men rising inside of him is unlike anything he has ever known. Both organs lengthen and thicken, pulling his inner walls into two different directions, parting his muscles wider and wider, spreading the seed inside him thinner and thinner. His body still feels so small between the two men holding him, and there is a pain in him now, as he is stretched and forced beyond the capacity he thought possible. Their flesh only continues to grow, filling him further and further, until he can feel the rub of each organ against one another, each minuscule movement an avalanche of sensation.

And then, breaking off his litany of murmured praises and comforts, his father looks over his shoulder to his son, and, on some cue he cannot make sense of, they both begin to thrust.

They do not alternate, one going in as the other withdraws. Instead, they time themselves so they both drag backwards before slamming forward at the same time, as though they were lashed together into one thick, obscenely large point of flesh, cutting deep and hard into him. Each thrust feels like a sword’s point, stretching his flesh and bruising his muscle, and he cries out with each movement. The hands in his hair are less soothing now, gripping tight and tugging on each hunk of it they hold. Their voices are no longer gentle, falling to deeper, harsher pitches as they list his sins. They speak of abandonment, of insolence, of cruelty and disobedience. Of ingratitude and of isolating, of being impossible to love. He sobs now, not only because of the brutal force of flesh between his legs, but because he knows every word they spit at him is true. He is a monster, a work of flaws and inelegance. He is unworthy of anything but contempt, of disappointment. He is fit only to be despised.

As soon as they break him down, though, the words shift, becoming sweeter, soothing once again. Now, they promise that which he has all but given up hope on - redemption, repayment. Forgiveness. They paint a picture of a sweet, obedient boy, who selflessly gives himself to right the wrongs the man he’d been has caused. A fresh start, the kind he’d sought with his father and offered his son. He will be a boy again, their boy, and they will keep him and curl about him, inside him. They will make him into something obedient and tender - something good.

Something they can love.

He wants it, in this small, cubed space, filled with red air that burns in his lungs and weighs on him like a ton of stone, of self-loathing, of shame. He feels regret inside himself as keenly as the heavy drag of flesh still piercing into him, dragging across his walls with exacting and overwhelming possession. And so he cries out, as their flesh seems to grow wider and thicker, seems to break free of anything that can be reasoned, filling every inch of him with heat and warmth, scraping him raw and leaving him sore and bruised and tender. Leaving him new and raw. He cries out, a wordless, shattered scream, and there are lips on either side of his throat now, biting and gnawing, twisting and bruising, and he lets them mark him, tears now of gratitude, and he is promising them everything they’ve asked for, swearing to make it true, or to die trying to. He gives himself to them, completely and utterly, begging for nothing than for what they’ve offered to be made real. To be a boy again, their boy, to be kept and owned and worshiped and tortured and loved.

His body seems to melt away in the rush of heat that overtakes his senses, and he knows a deal has been struck. It feels perfect, feels right, and he is grateful for it. Pandora’s Box claimed to be filled with wickedness, with torments, but there is one element within many forget and discount, the most terrible and tormenting of all the wicked things possible within its walls. Rumpelstiltskin is reborn in this confined, scarlet place, destroyed and rebuilt with this sinister, pervasive force. They hold him, up, to them, down, and he welcomes it, drinking up their flesh and lips and honeyed words, begging for more of it, the agony and the pain and the beauty of being wanted and forgiven and loved. Destroyed utterly by the terrible cruelty of hope.

~*~


End file.
